The Pope Hearts AIDS

The Pope and his Aids
are in the pharmacy.
They walk past the rows
of shelves laden with sweets
to soothe the throat,
The tablets to settle
the stomach.
The vast richness of
hayfever remedies.
And pause.
Pause.
Pause.

Condoms.

"This will not
do", says the Pope
to his Aids,
gathered around him;
a host of bobbing apples
floating in a barrel of
false enlightenment.
"This is an abomination!
A blasphemy to the Holy Trinity!
Remove them from this store or I,
Will
Leave."

The Aids rush around him gathering
every flavoured, ribbed, extra large offence,
and dumping them in a pile next to the holiday lotions,
Three for two on suncream that would protect from Hell's fire.

The excommunicated prophylactics sit in a pile,
Waiting for their judgement of fire and brimstone,
As the Pope turns to his Aids,
and says,
"Sometimes, in this world of sin,
we need to stick to the rules,
That I make,
For everyone's safety.
How can the world
NOT see this?
Sometimes I think it's just
you lot and me."

Because, as we all know,
The Pope loves his Aids.